A girl quietly hangs over her upstairs railing, watching with rising anxiety, the scene unfolding below. Her Father is much too calmly speaking about the shotgun in his hands, one that he is taking apart and loading with precise speed. The click of the bullet chamber closing makes both of the observing youth jump.

     The boy has stopped wringing his sweating hands and is now trying to discreetly wipe them on his jeans whilst nodding to the mans words with an occasional tight smile.

     Later the girl remarks what a gentleman he is and while the boy answers ‘of course’, he is thinking that a bullet to the head would hurt a lot.

     My Father has a shotgun, its’ sleek form is made up of protective arms that hold me close and a calm gaze that grasps its’ target. The bullets are calculated words that penetrate with unwavering understanding. Yes it can be frustrating and oh yes boys are a topic dreaded like math. But in the end I am safe, in the end I am loved.

               More Fathers should have shot guns.